Dean stares into the mirror, right hand over his heart. He presses down, fingertips going white with pressure, until the skin breaks. The sucking, squelching sounds fill the small bathroom as Dean digs blunt fingers into himself, past ribs and through tissue until he reaches paydirt. Wrenching his hand free, he watches his blood splatter in crimson droplets across the counter, his black black heart a dead thing of sulphur and brimstone in his fist. The lighter in his free hand ensures the monstrosity burns, burns, burns.
Dean wakes violently and stumbles to the pristine white bathroom, whole and intact.